|
Welcome to NEWera Wrestling. We hope you enjoy your visit.
You're currently viewing our forum as a guest. This means you are limited to certain areas of the board and there are some features you can't use. If you join our community, you'll be able to access member-only sections, and use many member-only features such as customizing your profile, sending personal messages, and voting in polls. Registration is simple, fast, and completely free.
Join our community!
If you're already a member please log in to your account to access all of our features:
|
|
Faces Of Death
|
|
Topic Started: Dec 3 2011, 07:20 PM (146 Views)
|
|
Iron Heart
|
Dec 3 2011, 07:20 PM
Post #1
|
|
Unregistered
|
( OOC note: Since I was asked twice already, the bold in my rp's represents me basically talking to the camera, while the non-bold represents me talking to myself out loud. Pretty much a change of tone if you wanna get simple about it.)
Four knuckles, four voices, four reasons crashing against your face making you realize this was a bad idea. You lay there lifeless, with dead ideas that will sprout to nothingness. The souls of my boots smash into your body, and you might think I'm just trying to hurt you, but it's greater then that. I'm really just trying to kick start the beginning of the end, or what ever motor would supply that thought to your brain.
“I'm the fucking Grim Reaper, and Challenger Series is your Final Destination.”
We open the scene, and it hits us filled with it's epicness, and complete perfection of placement. The vibe, the story, and emotion slams into our veins like a heroin addict revisiting the first time they shot up, “It's Nirvana.” We read into the happiness, that warm feeling and sadness, we go into that first nod and when we open our eyes back up we let our pupils vitalize the room that lays before us.
The hardwood floor is a light brown color, but tells story of age just like a fine wine. Scratches run rampant on the floor and knots seem to pop-out here and there. The floor it's self could be a metaphor it's self if we compared it to my life travels, “It's been through a lot.”
I sit in this room, in a wooden chair, that shows the exact same characteristics as the floor and of me. It's on it's last leg, but at the same time it's physically able to support all the weight that reigns down on it. The room is well lit, with my friends the shadows creeping in the corners. They stay at arms reach letting me know they have my back, letting me know they are only a holler away.
“My mask I hold in my hand, has it's meanings and reasons. At Challenger Series I will be a Grim Reaper for five other people and when they look at my mask they will see death. The mask it self represents that of a skeleton, but the man behind the mask is a fucking murderer.”
I keep my identity hidden as my back is the only thing in view as I sit in this old and sturdy chair. My hair is a dark brown as it frolics the top of my head. My back is clothed, and suppresses any notion of scars I may have from my past ventures. Outside is plagued with chills and winter winds that would avalanche the mind. But the inside has a motion of warmth the hugs your body and lets you know it'll be a comfortable feeling. I take a deep breath, and it's all I can hear besides the cracking of the aged wood that lays below my feet.
“I already won, I'm already the new Television Champion of New Era. It just hasn't happened yet, but it will.”
I came into this company with not much introduction; nor attention that I was really anything special at all. Question marks could be placed over your head like some kind of comic, because the truth is, that I'm a fucking star. Not a star in the idea that I'm going to plummet to earth and destroy your very existence, but more of the sense of I'm a fucking superstar and I will destroy your complete existence. Violence, chaos, and mass hysteria is what I'm all about. And no, not a zombie apocalyptic event of body snatching and limb devouring. Instead I bring an apocalyptic event of soul snatchin and pride devastation.
“Even Travis Blaine says “Get up on it!”
I'm undefeated, if Bruce Buffer introduced me we would emphasize when he says “I have no blemishes on my record.” So why the fuck would I start now? Why the fuck would I let any of you win? Why wouldn't I impose my will? The answers to those questions is that there is no answer, it's completely rhetorical.
“At Challenger Series any questions you asked yourself about becoming champion, about winning will not be answered. Your facing me, your facing Iron Heart, and I will make sure your answers remain in the state of being rhetorical. In the Endurance Challenge you will not win, your answers will not be answered, your question will remain questions!”
I look at my mask again, and notice the feel of texture as it presses against my fingers. Cotton, hide, canvas, it may be one of these three but that's not what I sense. What I sense is an emotion, a feeling that takes over my opponents and turns them into victims. My fingers continue to touch that mask as they absorb that emotional feeling I was trying to describe, and in return my hands begin to shake themselves.
“The mask represents fear and I represent a winner.”
My hands can almost clutch that championship title as the thought of the gold plate hugging my waist reproduces a smile. I'm the next big thing, and fan support is now evident. Males cheer for me, Females wanna sleep with me, and they follow my glory with applaud and a heavy roar. I have the skill and I have the support, I make the “It Factor” look like a complete joke. Even when I take a shit I make the crowd pop.
“But this really isn't about me, it's about you, the ones who will lose at the PPV.”
Like a lasso, I'm trying to wrap my mind around these ideas and capture these thoughts. I have all the answers but now I'm plagued with some new questions, “Will I destroy five careers in pursuit of my own?” Will they be able to cope with the loss, and hit of failure that will accompany it. I look at my mask and stare as they will at Challenger Series. This is my mask of victory, but for them this is the mask of their reaper, this is their mask death.
“And I can't help but think the role I'll play in their lives after this event.”
Jason Matthews
The loss sits heavy on his shoulder as it plays cat and mouse games whispering messages of failure. But Matthews is strong right? Well from the looks of things he was hit excessively with the ugly stick. So I would like to assume and give him the benefit of the doubt that he at least has something going for him.
This man is a soldier, embracing the Japanese style that has grabbed his attention years ago; Thus making this man a Samurai. The mans a warrior none the less. Matthews is tactical, waiting for you make your move, waiting for you to show signs for an opening. I don't care if you underestimate or respect him he remains deadly. At the drop of a dime he will pull that sword and plunge it into your heart, or any other artery his game of attack is sighted on. He will leave you limbless and declare his victory all while stomping on a pool of your blood arranged from his own hands.
”But every warrior meets his demise, every warrior reaches his end to the path of the road, and will have to question whats next.”
How will Matthews cope, how will he suppress the hurt of pride that was stabbed by my hands. He might go WWII on me. Having his sights on the enemy, me, while tuning into the propaganda that blast over the air ways, destruction is the only option. He would nose dive like the nostrils of an addict and a line of coke. Vengeance would plague his mind as he got closer and closer to his target. Past memories of his failure at Challenger Series and every other short coming that was produced from that event. I'm in Matthews cross hairs and he wants to give me a piece of his mind through a crash course of pain and a redemption of glory. His face shows happiness and a victim close to defeat, his eyes glow as he embraces this action and braces for impact...
But Iron Heart doesn't go down like that, something like that just wouldn't happen. Lets be serious, Matthews is a warrior, but he's no Iron Heart. Matthews would accept his defeat and be a Samurai over the situation whether he liked it or not. The loss would be to much, it would press against his mind and the weight of this would be to much to carry on his shoulders. He would drop to his knee's and accept defeat. The sword he used, his weapon of choice that was coated with the blood of his victims was soon to be coated with that of his own. He would plunge that blade into his chest and in a metaphoric reason it self he would come to terms that he is no Iron Heart.
The blood he spilt as his eyes laid of the battle field now took witness to the blood of his own. He accepted the defeat and took fate into his hands. His hands recognized failure and any pride that he had left he would strange with his own hands and give himself a warriors death.
“Mike Miller”
The veteran, The Ex-XFC superstar, the I use to bust heads with steal chairs and wipe my ass with thumb tacks. The man is tough as nails, im sure his body has been through the works. Miller could have a better nights sleep on top of a broken table with splinters abusing and piercing his skin. Kids from the 90's use to rock barb wire tattoo's like it was the cool thing to do. Lets be honest nothing says your tough like a butterfly tramp stamp besides a barb wire tattoo on your bicep, it screams “I'm hardcore.” News flash, literally, like bright lights grab your attention as your introduced to the awesomeness Miller brings to the table. This man doesn't need some lame ass tattoo, I'm sure he had his fare share of barbwire wrapped around his fists. If not that then i'm sure his head shows scars that read “Barbwire was here” as it smashed against his face in more then one occasion. Mike Miller is like Misty Lyn, he's been around the block, but in a different kind of way.
“Honestly, Miller I respect you. How couldn't I respect a fellow Xf... I mean a person from such a great organization as XFC.”
For a second, lets forget about the steel chair causing nematodes on foreheads. Lets for get about the broken tables and scars of cainings on peoples flesh. Lets forget the whole hardcore aspect, and visualize our minds and journey into the path of the brain that focuses on the mentality journeys of a true veteran.
The wins, the losses, the draws, there all chapters to what would be a beautiful novel. You can always go back and re-read the debut, the intro. Chapter one would bring you happiness, as a smile would raise from your face with so much pleasure. The story hasn't even started yet, but the thought what could transpire almost could bring tears to your eyes. Your favorite matches, your favorite feuds, they're all in this book that covers your journey, your life. But each book has turmoil and despair and you have seen your fare share. The let downs, the defeats you wear it on your face like a fucking mask where all can see your pain. You have felt the heart break, as you come close to that goal and fall short. Your soul has been shattered, but your the vet and have been through this so you drag it along in your journey trying to piece it back together. And even if you could glue all those pieces back into your soul, you can steal see the cracks as you dwell deep with in. So when people ask you what goes on in your head, when they ask what your thinking, the answer is simple. “Controversy.”
But each book has an ending, each book has a final chapter. Miller has been through a lot, but that last chapter will be dedicated to me, dedicated to Iron Heart. You'll give every thing you got at Challenger Series, but it won't be enough. Blood, sweat, and tears, I'll make you bleed sweat, and then I'll make you fucking cry. You have been in this position before, but you now realize the one thing holding you back is yourself. You realize it's something you can't fix, something you can't piece back together, but there's something that you can do.
You'll realize your prime is over. Shit it's been over for the last couple of chapters, and your not gonna Wanderlei your self out of this fight. So the only option left is the one you knew was eventually coming, and that was hanging them up. You will understand this is the end of the final chapter, and you'll put the boots to rest.
“Misty Lyn”
Wait, who the fuck are you?
Oh another vagina in a mans sport.
It's no secret, no need to cup your ears in search of sound waves that could provide you an answer. “Iron Heart beats down bitches.” I aint Chris but I'll leave you browned and treat you like Rihanna. With one hand I'll leave you ass cheek jiggling with the imprint of my hand. The other hand I'll leave and lead with my knuckles and tattoo your forehead with a message.
“Iron Heart was here.”
As much as I must admit my favorite childhood past time was mentally abusing woman I'm sure you have some strong traits to characterize in this whole narrative, right? So you use your sex appeal, your boobs, and that amazing ass of yours. You sway those child bearing hips that scream “Lets make little Iron Hearts.” I know you flaunt your sexuality and prod my mind into deeply thinking that you dig me, that your interests go pass the wrestling mat. The truth of the matter is, no woman wants to be with me unless I beat her into submission and tell her to do so. So you go ahead and release your estrogen hoping it strangles the testosterone of your victims into complete and ridiculous loyalty. Whisper in their ear and make them believe the stories that you flaunt, and then cut their fucking heads off like a praying mantis.
“Your approach is original, I'll give you that.”
But when your sluttery tactics of whorism don't work on me what will you turn to. Spending your career fucking with emotions and twisting feelings. But karma is waiting around the corner of the dark alley you tread down. Not sure what to do with the loss, you stroll the streets in search, in search of a new you. But karma is watching you, watching your every move, your every turn. The thing is karma's a piece of shit, and a bigger bitch then you. You know it's following you, as you can hear it's foot steps right behind you, but you try not to listen. Time goes by, but those foot steps get louder and louder, and you can't block out the sound. You now know karma is on your ass, and you want to cover your ears and close your eyes, but ti won't let you. Karma has claimed you it's victim yelling “Surprise!!” and making you feel as worthless as you are.
And you'll probably die from aids or something like that.
“James Stall”
A second generation superstar I guess you could say. His grandfather was a legend, and James could be labeled as a disappointment to the Stall name. He should be some kind of golden boy, a superstar at that, but he isn't. Instead of being surrounded in the hype of a golden plate image James Stall is nothing but nickel and a little bit of iron. He is a dime a dozen, hunching his back from the wight of his grand fathers shadow that he can't support.
“But I would have to think he knows the rules of the game maybe a little better then everyone else.”
At a young age his grandfather must have passed James the crown, even if it didn't fit his head at that time. I would think the kid learned how to preform a wrist lock before he was even able to walk. Growing up his Grand Father was the fucking man, and his word was law. Watching and praising a man he held deep in his heart would most likely push him to be just like the man he admires. He fights for his family name, and fights to show he can just as good. James Stall likes to hit shit, and when he cocks back that hand he'll let you know. He'll let his knuckles do the talking as they slam in to your face, go ahead and bleed, go ahead and cry, this is James fucking Stall.
“But I really don't give a shit.”
Cause the same man he looks up to and tries to be is the same thing that holds him back. All his thoughts set focused on that shadow that accompanies him life, that prevents him to be his own person. All James wants to be is James Stall, but everyone else sees him as the grandson of Joe Stall. He fights this shadow that has claim to his name, and looks for any way possible to defeat it. But you'll never beat something that doesn't really exist, what James is fighting is a thought. A thought that tortures his mind and tells him he'll never be good enough.
“And it's the truth, he'll never be good enough to defeat me.”
James is conflicted as his biggest enemy is himself. Battling what he images as his Grandfathers legacy preventing from that of his own, he'll take any plan necessary to defeat this. Pity, hate, depression will all strike James after his loss as he loos for ways to cope that he will never be the same man of his Grandfather. He'll blame himself and like most people in the locker room he will hate James Stall as well. There is only one option, one answer, he'll have to take out James Stall, he'l have to off himself. He is his biggest enemy, and he knows it, and when he's standing on the ledge of that bridge I'll be the one whispering “Go ahead, jump.”
“Doc Holiday”
“The Champ.”
There's one thing you need to understand, one thing I need to drill into your head. “You never faced someone as good as me” and that's a fact. I get it though, your the future, everyone is force feeding you that thought and notion so much it even makes me want to puke.
“How can you be a future World Champion when you can't defend the TV title against me. Someone no one thinks will win, and some people don't even realize I'm in the match. At Challenger Series your going to lose to someone that no one has the respect to pay attention to. At Challenger Series Iron Heart will kill your hype, and I will kill your TV title reign.”
So, there you are with all the glits and glamor that surrounds you like some kind of over the top aura. Your music hits, and as the crowd explodes it settles in as melody to the symphony that would be the start of another triumph. Your full of yourself, because what else says “The Future” like a falsified over the top ego that has never had a taste of struggle and hardship. The trail you lead to the ring is paved in glitter and anything else that could catch a watchers eye. Your happy to announce that you have the “It Factor” and your opponents do not and you'd happily try to prove it. I don't consider showing scrubs what mediocre abilities look like as a sure sign of being a future world champ, if that's the case we mind as well put me in the NEW Hall of Fame.
“So when you lose to me what will happen to Doc Holiday?”
That silver spoon that shoves in your mouth that praise and insurance that your the next best thing will disappear. You will be yesterdays news as the headlines will be fucking clear, and you realize the paper has no room for you today. You'll be hit with a panic as xanex will replace that hand you use to hold during your career that told you “everything will be ok.” Thoughts transpire, questions give birth, and answers are slayed, and you realize you were never the future, but this outcome is.
“I am the future, you were just the opening act till Iron Heart took stage.”
So what comes of Holiday, what is his fate. If I went for advisory help im sure the magic eight ball would say it's “Uncertain.” It's not that I don't think your a competitor Holiday, the thing is your just not me, your not the future.
And once again I look at my as mask while sitting in that old sturdy chair, in that room where the shadows hide in the corner. They want to cover me, lend me a hand, be my friend, but they know it's not time as the lay dormant in the corners. Squeaking of the floor squeals in my ears, but yet I'm deaf to it. All my focus is on my mask, and I stare into it eyes, just like my victims will at Challenger Series.
“This is fear, this is pain, it is a face of the predator, and the face of your reaper. But me, I'm the fucking future.”
I slowly pull the mask over my head concealing my appearance, and the lighting in the room begins to change. We fade out as the shadows in the corners come out from hiding and engulf the room and everything in it.
|
|
|
| |
| 1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous)
|
 Join the millions that use us for their forum communities. Create your own forum today.
|
|